


The Night Time Perambulations in Room Thirteen

by Cân Cennau (gwenynnefydd)



Category: Agatha Christie's Poirot (TV)
Genre: Arthur Hastings POV, Break Up, Drunkenness, Episode: s5e2 The Underdog, Golf, Happy Ending, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Murder, POV First Person, Partner Betrayal, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, Temptations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2019-06-02
Packaged: 2020-04-06 15:07:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19065112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwenynnefydd/pseuds/C%C3%A2n%20Cennau
Summary: When Hastings accepted Charles' invite to a golf tourney, he had expected a little holiday, with maybe some clandestine meetings with his lover on the side. However, when a murder takes place, Hastings is torn between two different men, and has to decide where to put his faith...





	The Night Time Perambulations in Room Thirteen

**Author's Note:**

> I started this fic when I was deep in the Poirot fandom, all the way back in 2014, but it's only now that I revisited it to finish it off. I'm fairly certain this is the oldest WIP that I've ever finished. :')

It was a quiet evening when I received the invitation to join Charles at his uncle’s mansion for a golf tourney. I hadn’t initially asked Poirot to come - I had always kept my visits to my lover quiet, and I feared what would happen if Poirot discovered where my real desires lay. But this visit happened to coincide with Poirot’s desire to see a play in the theatre, which I had to regretfully decline. But at the first mention of Astwell’s name, Poirot had lit up like a Christmas Tree, and he started enthusing about Astwell’s collection of Belgian bronze miniatures. Not being much in the art world myself, the significance of this passed straight over my head, but I’d always had a weakness for Poirot’s enthusiasm. And it seemed Charles’ uncle could not resist a famous face - I mentioned in my reply to Charles of Poirot’s enthusiasm, and the very next day Poirot received an invitation for dinner from Sir Astwell himself.

The trip in the Lagonda was lovely, with the sunshine beaming in the bright blue sky. The tourney had already begun by the time we arrived - traffic on the main road and a slight misadventure locating our hotel had delayed us, but Charles greeted us with his trademark cheerfulness.

“Arthur! Glad to see you arrived safely. And you too, Mister Poirot - my uncle will be thrilled to meet you.”

Poirot tipped his hat. “I would be glad to meet with him too, Monsieur Charles. I can only apologize for our delay in arriving-”

“Oh, that’s no worry- traffic on the main road, eh?”

“We were stuck behind a tractor on it for about an hour before he deigned to pull over.” I said, and Charles laughed.

“You weren’t the only one - I’ve had four lads already complain about that damn thing. But enough about that - Arthur, come and see who we’re up against...”

Poirot moved back into the crowd of spectators, and I joined Charles and the other golfers. Charles took his time to introduce everyone, and when others would be playing, he’d lean close to me and whisper comments and flirtations in my ear. In most circumstances, I would’ve have told him to knock it off - _especially_ in such a public place! - but it had been some time since I had seen him, and besides I liked the attention, and the opportunity to be close to him without being accused of impropriety. Just before it was our turn to play, however, there came a slight commotion from the crowd. A young lady came hurrying towards us, and by the smile on Charles’ face, this was someone that he cared for.

“Charles!” the lady said, coming to stand beside where we were chatting with Poirot. “Here I am. Good luck today!”

“Thank you, Lily.” Charles grinned, and turned to me. “Miss Lily Margrave, my aunt’s companion. Lily, this is my... partner, Captain Hastings.”

I gave Charles a brief, quizzical glance, before shaking the hand of Lily Margrave. Was that nearly a slip of the tongue? The hesitation, although small, was noticeable. Not by the young lady Lily, who shook my hand with the vivaciousness of youth, but I could tell Poirot had picked it up. But the curious expression that crossed his face was quickly wiped away as Lily heaped praise upon the little man, and soon the brief slip was forgotten in an afternoon of golf.

BREAK

Sir Astwell invited us to dinner, and I really wished he hadn’t. The man was as sour and as malcontented as Poirot was at his fussiest, and yet Charles had said this was him on a _good_ day. Charles walked Poirot and I back to our hotel, although it was more of a wobbly wander and Charles leant on me for most of the way. Upon arriving at the hotel, Charles took my clubs and offered to take them to the cloakroom, so that I wouldn’t have to take them all the way upstairs. He lingered for a moment, as Poirot first made his assent up the stairs, and when he was out of earshot, leant over to me and whispered;

“Don’t suppose you’d like some company tonight?”

I thought for a moment, then nodded impercibly, and felt rather than saw the smile next to my ear. He wandered off to sort my clubs, and I ascended the stairs. To my surprise, Poirot was lingering outside my door, evidently waiting for me. I laid one hand on his shoulder, and asked;

“Are you alright, Poirot?”

“Perhaps,” he murmured. “It has been… a tiring evening.”

“I say,” I replied. “Sir Astwell was a right boor. How he treated you at dinner was terrible! And how he talked about the war…”

Poirot nodded. “It is not unusual.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s right.” I squeezed his shoulder. “He should’ve treated you better, Poirot. His behaviour was completely unacceptable.”

A certain weight came off his shoulders, and Poirot patted my hand and smiled. “Thank you, _mon ami._ ”

“No worries, old man.” There was a sudden crash, and a swear, and we both turned to see Charles stumble up and over the top step. I took a small step away from Poirot, and let my hand drop from his shoulder.

“Mister Poirot!” Charles said, with some barely-hidden surprise. “I... just wanted to say goodnight. And I wanted to apologize for my uncle-”

“ _Pas du tout._ ” Poirot smiled. “It is of no consequence. But, thank you. You will be going back to Sir Astwell’s house, I presume?”

“Ye-es.” His eyes flashed to me, and caught my gaze, giving me a knowing look. “If I can remember the way back in the dark, that is!”

“I say, you don’t look so steady on your feet,” I said hastily. “Do you want to sit down in my room for a moment?”

“That would be great,” He smiled, and the relief was evident. “Thank you Captain.”

Poirot nodded, and bid us both goodnight, before slipping into his room across the hall . I invited Charles into my room, where we lingered over brandy and cigarettes, before abandoning them both to far more pleasant activities involving my bed and his tie. It was one or two hours before either of us spoke - I am certain we both dozed off after we reached our pleasures. The clock struck 3 o’ clock as we relaxing on the bed, him reclining on the headboard with another glass of brandy, and me lying by his side, unknotting his tie from the headboard.

“I have missed you, Arthur.” Charles murmured, throwing me a slight smile. “You always know how to handle me best.”

I laughed, and pulled my tie free, tossing it over the side of the bed. “You did most of the handling today, old boy. So much so I’d be surprised if next door couldn’t here us.”

“Let’s hope they didn’t!” Charles sipped at his brandy. “I wasn’t too rough with you, was I?”

“No, no… You were rougher than usual,but nothing I can’t handle.”

“Good, good…” Charles paused for a moment. “I just felt… a little frustrated. The argument with my uncle had me on edge.”

“Ah, of course.”

“Shouting about joining the business, all that kind of codswallop. Things that I certainly want no part in.” He rolled his eyes. “Perhaps it comes with age. Does your old man ever go on about you like that?”

I frowned “My what?”

“Your old man. Mister Poirot.”

“Oh!” I laughed a little. “Only when he’s frustrated. We’re not related, mind you - perhaps it’s a family thing.”

“I assumed that you were, given that you stayed together so long. I know army pensions struggle to cover living costs in the city.” He paused again, before continuing in a slightly delicate tone; “Are you and him…”

He waved his hand in a vague gesture, which I assumed to be him asking if Poirot and I had been intimate. I shook my head.

“No, no. Nothing like that. I don’t even know if he’s… like me.”

“But if he was…?”

“I… I can’t believe we’re discussing this.”

“Blame it on the brandy.” Charles put his glass on the bedside cabinet, then pushed himself down so he lay eye to eye with me. “Now tell me, would you lie with him like you do with me?”

“Not when I’m with you.” I shook my head. “It would feel… wrong to make love to someone else whilst I was involved with you.”

“But if you weren’t with me?”

“...Maybe.”

“I knew it!” Charles let out a whoop of laughter, rolling onto his back and grinning up at the ceiling. “I knew there was a reason you were always joined to his hip! What do you like about him?”

I pondered on the question. “I don’t know. I just kind of… do. Maybe it’s because we’ve been friends for so long, and I almost… _fell_ into this… attraction.”

“And you think he likes you back? Will you take your chance with him if we were done?”

“No, and no. There would be no point.” Hastings sighed. “Actually, I’m pretty sure I have no chance with him.”

“Why? Is he religious?”

“Catholic.”

“Ouch.” Charles reached out and squeezed my hand sympathetically. “Ah well, I guess you’ll just have to be content with me for the time being.”

I smiled a little. “I _am_ content. Although, you might not be content with me.”

Charles looked at me, frowning. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve seen the way you look at one Miss Lily Margrave.” I teased slyly. Charles had the grace to blush. “Don’t think I haven’t. I’d say you were _flirting_. Taking her out, racing away in your car… Remember when we used to do that?”

“Yes, when we were courting. I remember. Had our first kiss in that car, just outside the town.” He fell silent for a little while as he reminisced. “I can take you out in the car again, if that’s what you’re after.”

“No, there is no need to court me again. You’ve already got me. But you’ve got your eye on Lily, I can tell.”

“I can tell you now, I don’t.”

“You _do_.”

“I-”

I gave him a look. He sighed.

“Ok, maybe I do. A little. But I’m not going to choose her over you. Unless you go running off with your little Belgian harlot...”

I laughed, before pressing a kiss to his cheek. “You cheeky so-and-so. Now come on, you’d better get home before you are missed.”

“I should.” He smiled back at me, before getting up from the bed and reaching for his dinner jacket. “Lord knows what Uncle Reuben is going to say if I stay any later. Probably something about what a waste of life I am, staying out late, not caring about business... God, sometimes I think I could kill the man!”

BREAK

What happened the next day was something I hoped wouldn’t happen.

Sir Astwell lay on the floor of his study, dead. Poirot and I had barely begun examining the crime scene before everything began going hopelessly wrong. First, the officer that told us that Charles was the last person to see Sir Astwell alive. Then, the discovery of the missing papers, and the attempted theft. Then the maid, running in to tell us about Charles and the bloodied shirt. Then us all crowded into the tiny bathroom, and Charles fleeing across the roof of the building….

Whenever a friend of mine was a suspect in a murder, I always felt... awkward. Disjointed. As if I was committing a betrayal of trust by even considering that one of my friends could ever do such a heinous crime such as this. It was even more intense when one of my lovers was in the firing line, although it had only happened once before today. But the evidence was so overwhelming, that I had no choice but to suspect him. And it wasn't as if he was putting up much of a fight!

Without thought to safety or hazard, I pushed past Poirot and climbed out the window, dropping neatly onto the roof below. I looked up in time to see Charles jump nimbly from the other end of the roof, and quickly followed him. I heard Poirot call my name from the window behind me, but I ignored him, instead choosing to run wildly after Charles as he dropped down onto the bins behind the house, and headed into the copse.

My blood boiled with anger, and it was if I was looking through a red haze as I battled through the undergrowth and roots. Betrayal and hurt drove me to run ever faster through the trees. I could see the white of Charles’ shirt through the trunks in front of me, and it spurred me on. I could not believe that he had killed the old man, and abused his position as my partner. Did he expect me to cover for him? To use Poirot to redirect suspicion away from him? To think I may have slept with a murderer! The thought chilled my bones, and made the blood boiling anger feel even more acute.

There were whistles, and the pounding of running men and dogs rung in my ears. I supposed the police had seen me running and followed, but I did not stop. I had to get to Charles first. Before he was arrested by the police. I would not be able to speak to him openly if he were behind bars.  I had to understand why he did it. If he felt anything at all for me, or if I was always a pawn in this murder plan of his. I had to have some sort of closure.

I saw him stumble and nearly fall as he hit the road. He was only sixteen yards away now, and I picked up my pace. There was fifteen yards, now fourteen then twelve, eleven-

The sound of tires screeching across the road did not register in my mind until it was nearly too late. I saw Charles look down the road, before sprinting and dodging the police car that pulled up next to him. The driver and passenger leapt out and wrestled Charles to a halt, as I all but crashed into the bonnet of their car.

 _Blast,_ I thought to myself, pushing myself from the bonnet and nursing my bruised ribs. _Now I’m never going to have the chance to speak to him alone_ . The constable pushed Charles up against the car bonnet, quietly reading him his rights as he wrapped handcuffs around his wrists and locked them with a series of small _clicks_. I gave Charles a furious look, and felt a dark pleasure when he flinched away.

BREAK

The golf tourney went on even though Charles was incarcerated. Without my golfing partner, and still smarting over Charles’ apparent betrayal, I decided to stay by the side and watch this time. I had thought it was case closed, given how Charles had run off at the first sign of trouble, but Poirot insisted on investigating fully anyway. A little flame of hope stirred within me that perhaps this was all just a big misunderstanding, but I quashed it. Charles had given himself away, and Poirot had always reprimanded me for trusting my sentimentality over the facts. I had to trust the evidence that was in front of me, and that evidence was telling me that Charles was guilty.

But even this new-found pragmatism couldn’t fill the hole inside me that longed for Charles. The idea of going to visit Charles flitted through my head as I walked down the drive towards town, but I decided against it - I could not trust myself not to be angry with him. And I could not be seen to be sympathetic to him, as the police might question my involvement with the investigation. There was no-one else that I could visit either - the household was either mourning or working, Lily was nowhere to be found, and Poirot had left for Astwell Chemicals earlier that morning. After a little while of moping around the golf course, I headed back alone to our hotel, where I could mope behind a broadsheet in a far more comfortable chair.

I am not one to believe in fate or divine testing, but the sudden appearance of Lily Margrave did for a moment reignite the flame that told me _there was something else afoot_ . I watched over the top of my broadsheet as Lily handed over a package for someone in the hotel, her face hidden beneath her hat. I made an admiral attempt to convince myself that the package was something wholly innocent - love letters, or _something_ \- but that little flame would not die out, and within a few moments I found myself wielding Poirot’s clout and convincing the receptionist allow me to hide behind the door and find out who Lily’s secret confidant really was, and where she might be going. Poirot’s approval at my amateur sleuthing almost made me forget about Charles at all, and the excitement of a car chase through London to find Lily and her confidant (her brother, as we later discovered) dispelled any residual bad feelings.

“So Astwell is a thief as well as a boor.” I commented, after Poirot had dismissed Lily and her erstwhile brother. “What a despicable man.”

“That is still no excuse for his murder.” Poirot reminded him. “But now I think the clues are finally coming together.”

“You think you’ve found the murderer?” I asked, hope rising just a little. “You don’t think it was Charles?”

“I think I am _near_ to finding the murderer. I think though, there are just a few things Poirot is yet to ascertain.”

“Like what?”

“Like whether Monsieur Charles also attended the scene before or after Astwell’s death.” He paused for a moment. “Tell me, how long was Monsieur Charles in your company that night, Hastings?”

I felt my pulse spike with nerves, but I strived to remain calm. “Oh, not long. An hour or two, at the most - he left just after 3 o’ clock.”

“The police have told me that Sir Astwell died around two o’ clock, therefore...”

“Well, he couldn’t have done it in that case!” I exclaimed. “He was still with me.”

Poirot nodded, but his face was still troubled. “Why was he with you so long?”

 _Careful, Hastings…_ “Oh, he was drunk. He’s quite loquacious when he’s like that, and he wanted to talk.”

“For nearly two hours?”

“At some point he fell asleep, but I woke him so that he could get home.”

Poirot frowned. “And that was it?”

“Yes.”

Poirot was quiet for a few moments, and I got the distinct impression that he was… not angry exactly, but frustrated. “That is not as convincing an answer as I had hoped, Hastings.”

“I’m sorry. I wish I could be of more help, but that is all we did. Talk.”

I could feel my cheeks burn with the lie, and I turned away so that Poirot could not see my face. I heard him sigh behind me, and I squashed down the guilt that came bubbling up at the small sound.

“Hastings,” Poirot said, quietly. “you understand that if you do not tell me the truth - the _full_ truth - your friend may be prosecuted with a crime he may not have committed?”

 _And if I did tell you,_ I thought, _he’ll certainly be prosecuted on completely different charges_. I did not voice that thought aloud, but instead said. “If you don’t trust my evidence, you can ask the porter - he surely saw Charles leaving.”

“It is not a case of trusting you, _mon cher_ . It is a case of _presentation_ .” Poirot’s voice was sharp, and I suppressed a flinch. “However much I trust you, _mon ami_ , the police would not take your word that he stayed in your room for two hours, talking. And if the porter did not see him?”

“Then I trust that you’ll find the murderer before he’s sentenced.” I turned back to Poirot, the flush fading from his cheeks. “I have faith in you, Poirot. I know you’ll find the right man.”

Poirot did not look satisfied with that answer, but he nodded, and indicated with a small hand movement that we should return to the car.

BREAK

My faith was well placed - in the next two days, Poirot had gathered the facts, interviewed Charles, hired Ms Lemon to hypnotise Lady Astwell, and masterfully wrangled a confession out of Owen Trefusis. I only felt a little guilt that Trefusis was to be incarcerated for killing a cruel man who bullied and swindled him, but I soothed myself by hoping that the jury would consider Sir Astwell’s cruelty as a mitigating factor. And besides the outcome of the case, there were other things to focus on - by sundown, Charles had been released from prison, and I hurried up to the house to see him.

The manservant let me in with a somber nod, and indicated that Charles was in his room at the top of the house. I climbed the stairs, feeling just a little nervous, passing by Lily on her way down. Lily gave me a curt nod, and a small smile, which I returned, before continuing on my journey. Charles was at the window of his room, smoking a cigarette, and I gently knocked on the door to get his attention.

“I heard you’d returned.” I said, warmly. “I’m glad we could find the right man to arrest.”

Charles was quiet, and as I approached him, I could detect a certain tension in his shoulders. I placed one hand on his shoulder, and was surprised to find it brusquely shrugged off.

“Charles?”

“Lily told me everything about the case.” he said, almost mechanically. “She told me the police had marked the death at about two o’clock.”

“I told Poirot that you were in my room at that time.” I frowned, confused. “But we agreed, the police would never believe me if I said that. It would look like I was covering for you.”

Charles sighed, and I could tell he was still angry. What was the issue - that I had been with Poirot, trying to exonerate him? That I’d searched out the facts instead of trusting him at his word? Surely he understood how it had looked - how he had acted the part of the guilty man? Carefully, I moved closer, so that the space between us was intimate, but I did not try and touch him again.

“Charles,” I said, quietly. “I tried my best to get you out of there as soon as I could. As soon as I realised it wasn’t you, I did everything I could to exonerate you.”

“You should not have doubted me at all, Arthur!” The sharpness of Charles’ voice forced me to take a step back.

“How could I have not? It wasn’t like you acted innocent.”

“You could’ve gotten me out of there, Arthur! You could’ve proven my innocence far earlier!”

“What could I have said?!” I snapped back, now furious. “‘Oh Inspector, Charles is innocent, because he was busy _buggering_ me all night’ - you would’ve been arrested on completely different charges.”

“You could’ve done _something_.” Charles was sullen now. “You could’ve visited, at least.”

I sighed, feeling the anger drain away. “I should’ve. I didn’t, because I was hurt and angry.”

“You didn’t trust me.”

“How could I? You declare that you could kill Sir Astwell, leave my room in quite a drunken mood, and the next day the old man’s dead. What was I supposed to think?”

“Lily trusted me. Lily _visited_ me.”

And there was the truth of it. In the face of adversity, I had not trusted Charles. I had trusted Poirot and his little grey cells, and in doing so I had hurt Charles. Shame overwhelmed me, and I looked away so that I did not see the open hurt that lay across Charles’ face. And in my betrayal, Charles had turned to another - to Lily Margrave or Naylor, whatever she wanted to go by now. Lily had the faith that I didn’t have. There were other people in our relationship, people we would be willing to choose over others, and it became clear to me that now we had choices to make. To part, and be with those that we choose to value, or learn to trust ourselves and value ourselves again.

“I’m sorry,” I murmured. “You’re right - I should’ve had more faith in you.”

Charles seemed to sag, and I could see the conflict in his expression. Somehow, I already knew his decision before he voiced it.

“Lily’s invited me to holiday in the West Country.” Charles said, quiet now. “She wants me to meet her brother.”

“It’s serious then, is it?”

“Yes.” He drew himself up, and in his eyes I saw a spark of defiance. “I thought we were serious too. But you _left_ me to rot in there.”

“So this is it?” I replied. “I make one mistake- _one_ -”

“You put your faith in Poirot. Lily put her faith in _me_. And that’s all there is to it.” He paused, then lay a hand on my arm. “I’m sorry, Arthur.”

The touch did nothing to soothe my tumultuous emotions. Almost blinded by despair, I roughly shook his hand off and fled from the room.

BREAK

Following our return from the manor of Sir Astwell, I wasn’t in the best of moods. Charles had forfeited from the golf tourney, and I morosely completed our rounds. Not even the hole-in-one I shot could cheer me up for more than a few moments. My break-up with Charles had distinctly soured my thoughts, and when we returned to London I found myself uninterested in many things that had previously held my attention. I moped around Whitehaven Mansions for a few days, and then, when Poirot grew suspicious of my despondent mood, I relocated to my flat in Bedford Place and moped around there instead.

It was the following Thursday that I received a telegram from Poirot, asking me to come over to his for dinner. I had half a mind to refuse the invitation, due to my bad temper, but the attraction of Poirot’s cooking plus my own inability to make anything more complex than a sandwich at the moment pushed me into agreeing. At 6PM sharp, I was admitted into Chez Poirot, where a feast awaited me - _coq au vin_ , crusted bread and _creme brûlée,_ all of my favourites. I knew Poirot tended to show his affection to others by cooking for them, and I felt touched by his clear regard for me.

“I say, Poirot, this was all jolly good.” I said, after most of the food had been eaten, and all that remained was my second helping of _creme brûlée._ “What’s the occasion?”

“I had noticed you had been… out of sorts, _mon cher_.” Poirot replied, carefully stacking the used plated for washing-up later. “I thought, perhaps, if I could not know the source of your sadness, I could at least provide some comfort.”

“This was _lovely_. Thank you.”

He smiled, and nodded his head, before his smile turned a little mischevious. “And of course, I wished to celebrate the remarkable hole-in-one that you succeeded in performing.”

I didn’t exactly have the courage to say the reason I shot that hole-in-one was because of the anger of the break-up. Instead, I laughed, and nodded.

“Quite! I’ve only shot one before, and it only went in because it hit the flag. This one was a stroke of luck.”

“It was a pity Monsieur Charles abandoned the game. You both might’ve won the circle.”

“ _Round,_ Poirot.” I poked at my _creme brûlée_ , suddenly having lost my appetite. “No, he… he went off with Miss Margrave. I’m certain he had a grand old time in the West Country.”

I’m afraid I didn’t quite hide my hurt, and I instead shovelled another mouthful of pudding into my mouth to avoid continuing the conversation. Even as I mechanically chewed, keeping my eyes to the table cloth, I could sense that Poirot was watching me. His curiosity knew no bounds, and I could only pray I could keep my cool if he decided to question me.

“You are quite affected by his betrayal, _mon cher_?” he asked, quietly.

“I would’ve rather liked to have won the tourney, truth be told.” A flicker of a smile twitched at Poirot’s lips at my peluntant tone, but it faded.

“I do not doubt that, but that wasn’t… exactly what I meant.” With his normal grace, he left the table and walked over to the window, watching the night traffic trundle down the road outside the house. I instead watched Poirot, both confused and nervous. There was no way he could _know..._

“Poirot?”

There was a brief pause. “Will you tell me why Monsieur Charles was in your room that night?”

“I…” My mouth was dry, and I fumbled with my words. “We were… talking. That’s all.”

Poirot was watching my reflection in the window. “I may have instilled in you some sense of order and method, but the same cannot be said of Monsieur Charles.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, that while you take care with your appearance, Monsieur Charles did not.” he paused. “And when the porter describes Monsieur Charles having left the hotel that night looking… what is the English term, _ravished?_ It is perhaps not too difficult to deduce what exactly the both of you were doing that night.”

I felt the colour drain from my face, and I buried my face in my hands. This was it - my worst fear. Poirot had found out. In my wildest fantasies, I would come out to him, and he would accept me, and maybe I’d have boyfriend’s over for dinner so he could meet them, or maybe he would kiss me and we would be lovers instead. But this wasn’t any of those - this was a denouncement. Like at the end of all Poirot’s cases, Poirot had the evidence, he knew my secrets, and now all that waited was the punishment.

“You’re right.” I finally said, not even bothering to hide my fear. “Charles was my lover - we were... together that night.”

Poirot tilted his head. “‘Was’?”

“We had an awful row and broke up. I didn’t trust him enough during the case.” I sighed, and rubbed my eyes, which were feeling distinctly watery. “What will you do now?”

Poirot did not answer immediately. I heart his feet shuffle across the carpet, and then his broad, comforting hand rested on my arm.

“I,” he said. “am going to sit with you on our settee, we will have some brandy, and we will talk about your broken heart. That is what friends do, _non_?”

I looked up at him, astonished. “But Poirot-”

Poirot was smiling one of his gentlest smiles. “But nothing, _mon cher ami_. This is not a matter for the police, this is a matter of your heart.”

The relief that flooded every cell of my body was almost dizzying. As promised, Poirot ushered me onto the settee, and I watched as he prepared two brandies, one with soda and one neat. I accepted mine with a grateful smile, and sipped at it as he settled beside me.

“Now,” he said, turning towards my with a soft, sympathetic smile. “Let us talk. Tell Papa Poirot of your heartbreak.”

I watched the lights of the flat glimmer through my brandy and soda, letting the amber sparks soothe me as I thought of what to say.

“I met Charles when I was at a Remembrance service dinner party, about two years ago.” I said, carefully. “He was the youngest brother of a man I’d served with. His brother had died, but apparently he’d written about me and my regiment, and he came over to introduce himself. I did not intend to take him to bed at that point, but he was charming, and I was smitten. We exchanged letters, and a few months later he invited me to a golf resort, and then…”

“You fell in love.”

“We did.” I smiled, despite myself. “We did alright for a while, but these past few months we’ve been drifting. I hadn’t realised he’s met someone else.”

“He committed adultery?” Poirot’s face dropped into a picture of outrage, and I hastened to correct him.

“Oh, no Poirot. _No._ It was a flirtation, that was all. He was distracted with Lily, and I was busy with you going on all your cases, and we... drifted.”

Poirot still did not look too pleased about the situation. “And this weekend?”

“Charles invited me to the golf tourney, so that we could have some time together. But we’d been apart for so long, we’d started prioritising other people. He began prioritising his friendship with Lily, and I-”

I suddenly stopped, uncertain if I wanted to admit to my attraction to Poirot now. “-I began prioritising my friends.”

Poirot smiled a little. “You mean _moi,_ correct?”

I had forgotten how perceptive Poirot could be, and I laughed. “Yes. When the murder took place, it made it all the more obvious - I put my faith in you, and Lily put her faith in Charles. We had a row about it once he was released, and he decided that he wanted to… commit to Lily.”

I then stopped talking to drink some of my brandy. Poirot was quiet too, but I did not doubt that he felt sympathy for my plight. He had a way about him that encouraged talk, that never made you feel unsupported or unloved. The warmth of him beside me, the warm expression… it acted like a soothing balm, blunting the stabbing pain of the break-up to a dull ache.

“Can I ask you something, Poirot?” I asked, after a minute or so.

“Certainly, _mon cher_.”

“You don’t seem… disgusted with me. I know you’re Catholic, and I know the church looks down on people on me, but you…”

I trailed off, uncertain how to phrase the question. Poirot, however, understood implicitly what I was asking, and reached out to take my hand, folding my fingers within the warmth of his palm.

“We do not all follow the doctrines of our churches, _mon cher_ .” he said quietly, after a moment. “The _bon Dieu_ has made us as we are, in all our queerness. I do not intend to doubt him now.”

“‘We’?” I blinked, and looked at him. “You too…?”

Poirot smiled. “I have accepted my role here, as a witness to a different kind of living. As a detective, yes, but also as _un homme_ _homosexuelle_.”

I laughed, feeling a little light-headed. “I didn’t realise- I had _no_ idea-”

“As I had no idea about you - not until I considered the matter of Monsieur Charles being seen in a state of _deshabille_ coming from your room.” Poirot’s face then became a fraction more affectionate. “I did not realize immediately what was between you two, however.”

“No?”

“ _Non._ ” Poirot paused for a moment, then proceeded gently, almost hesitantly. “It crossed my mind, but I was uncertain if it was true. You spoke with Monsieur Charles the same way you did me - with patience, affection, and yes, even love. It did not occur to me until I saw Monsieur Charles with Mademoiselle Lily that your reasons for treating me like so was the same reason  Monsieur Charles treated you the same as Mademoiselle Lily.”

I frowned, not quite following. “I’m not sure I understand.”

“Earlier, you said that you both chose other people. But Monsieur Charles chose Mademoiselle Lily because he was smitten by her.” Poirot watched me carefully, and I felt my heart stutter a little with anxiety. Surely he hadn’t realised…

“Mademoiselle Lily was the... ‘other woman’ in your relationship,” Poirot was speaking with almost exquisite gentleness. “but Poirot became the ‘other man’, correct?”

I shut my eyes, defeated. “If that makes you uncomfortable-”

“ _Non,_ my dear Hastings, it does not in the slightest.” Poirot’s smile was warm and loving. “It is not a discomfort to realise that the feelings that I have harboured are now returned.”

_Returned…?_

“Poirot…?” I asked, dizziness and affection almost overwheming me. “You mean…”

Poirot answered my unasked question with a very gentle kiss.

 


End file.
